


Forget You're Made of Glass

by KorilineshipsDestiel247



Series: Finding Oneself [2]
Category: No Fandom
Genre: Depression, Drug Abuse, Fundamental Christianity, Gender Dysphoria, LGBTQ Character, Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Physical Abuse, Trans Male Character, attempted suicide, disturbing imagery, mentioned child abuse, mentioned transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 10:22:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3171344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KorilineshipsDestiel247/pseuds/KorilineshipsDestiel247
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set before "Building Bridges". Jensen is on a downward spiral and Brandon is at the end of his rope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forget You're Made of Glass

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise for any inaccuracies that you might come across. Enjoy.

Jensen kneels on the ratty rug in front of the coffee table. In his right hand is a box cutter blade; in the other, a bowl of finely crushed white powder (probably Trazodone and Ativan with maybe a drop of acid, though he isn't positive), a straw and a spoon. He spoons the powder onto a flat mirror and then cuts it into neat thin lines with the blade. To him, it looks like a row that a farmer might sow.

"Don't mind me; I'm just harvesting my crops," he says to no-one, the promise of a smirk on his lips.

He carefully places the straw and inhales deeply, taking the first line into his body. The inhalation of powder burns his nose and throat, and he suppresses the urge to sneeze or cough. The first time he'd done it -when he'd first come to San Fran two years ago, after running away from his parents and their sick idea of "help"- he'd gotten sick, but he's more experienced now. The burn doesn't bother Jensen anymore; on the contrary, he craves it. It's his constant reminder that he's alive.

With every line he flies higher, his depression and anxiety is forgotten, and he's no longer in the small apartment that he shares with Brandon… He's diving from the tallest cliff into an ocean of the brightest magenta; he has wings made of rainbows and the burning in his nose is holy fire that scorches demons. He can see light emanating from under his skin, begging to be let out, so he obliges it by picking up the box cutter and opening slits in his skin for the light to escape and escape it does. He is outside of himself now, looking down upon himself, noting little things about himself: how his eyes seem to glow like a cat's in bright light, how his blonde hair has become a halo. But no, it's not really him; that is just his detestable female body, his limited physical form. He is transforming, coming into his own, a glowing celestial wavelength surrounded by other celestial wavelengths, each calling out his true name, praying to him, Jensen, Jensen, Jensen,

"JENSEN CHRISTOPHER METZINGER!"

If Jensen were sober the sound of his full name on his boyfriend's lips would make him want to fight or find the nearest cover and wait out the coming storm, but he's not, and he doesn't.

"Look, Bran, the light… It's floating around, and around, and around…" He cuts himself off with a fit of giggling.

"Jesus, Jens, stay right there," says Brandon, moving quickly around the kitchen island to grab a towel from the sink and then coming over to the sofa and applying pressure to Jensen's forearms.

"Stop it; I can't see the light anymore," he says.

"What light?"

"The light beneath my skin. It was telling me to let it out."

Brandon's eyes -those beautiful almond-shaped chocolate-coloured eyes- are watery. Jensen doesn't understand why; letting the light out is a good thing. The more light there is outside of him, the closer he is to the way he should be.

"Come on, love; let's get you cleaned up and then go to bed," Brandon says instead, guiding Jensen to the bathroom and sitting him down on the toilet seat. Jensen watches with detached fascination as the cuts are cleansed with rubbing alcohol and covered in clean bandages.

"But the light, Bran…"

"We'll talk about it tomorrow."

XXXXXX

As Jensen awakens, he becomes aware of his pounding headache and the burning in his forearms. He tries to sit up, but he finds himself hindered from doing so by a pair of tanned arms wrapped around him, anchoring him. Turning onto his right side, he finds Brandon cuddled up to him, fast asleep, black hair sticking up every which way, those long eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks and his breath warm on Jensen's skin. Despite the physical discomfort he feels, something warm smoulders inside of him as he touches his boyfriend's cheek with his fingers, running them along his strong jawline and over plush lips, watching him awaken.

"Good morning, beautiful," he says. He's not quite smiling, but his mouth hints at it.

By way of reply, Brandon kisses him before pulling away, his eyes alight with anxiety and love… There's so much love in those brown eyes and Jensen doesn't know what to do with it, not even after a little over a year.

"How do you feel this morning?"

"I-"

"Don't you dare tell me that you're fine. I've known you long enough to know when you're trying to bullshit me."

Jensen thinks for a minute.

"Honestly? I feel awful, but I also feel hungry."

"Well, I know how to fix one of those," says Brandon, sitting up. "Go get washed up. I'll make breakfast and tea, I'm going to call in and take a day off of work, and then we are going to talk about what happened last night."

Jensen wants to protest but he knows Brandon won't let it go, so he merely nods and then heads for door that connects to the bathroom adjacent to their bedroom and the kitchen. Closing the door, he turns and is met with his own reflection staring back at him from the grimy mirror above the sink. He stares.

Jensen has always been slightly tanned, but the person looking back at him looks like death warmed over. His eyes, one hazel and the other grey, gaze out at him with a look emptier than a black hole. His golden blonde hair somehow seems less bright, the normally spiky locks wilted. And on his chest… Jensen stares at his breasts and wants to cry. This isn't him. This isn't what he was meant to look like. He shakes it off and pulls on a binder, breathing a sigh of relief when the most obvious evidence of his sex is hidden. The binder isn't a fix-all, but it'll have to do until he can save up enough for gender reassignment surgery. Washing his face with a damp washcloth, he pulls on a tee-shirt hanging over the towel rack, one of Brandon's, and opens the door that connects the bathroom to the kitchen.

"Breakfast and tea aren't ready yet," says Brandon as Jensen seats himself at the island. "Would you like some orange juice?"

"No thanks."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"All right."

They sit quietly until the kettle starts to whistle and the eggs are bright yellow. Breakfast is equally quiet, the only noise in the apartment the clinking of utensils on cheap dishes bought at Wal-Mart. Only after the counter has been cleared off and Jensen and Brandon are both sitting on the sofa with warm mugs of tea in their hands and a pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar on the coffee table in front of them do they dare break the tense quietude of the apartment.

"So talk to me," Brandon says. "What happened at work yesterday?"

Jensen looks down at his lap.

"I didn't go to work," he says.

"Why not, Jens?"

Jensen sips his tea, trying to buy himself some time to think over his response.

"Do you remember how my phone rang about a week ago around one or two in the morning?" he finally asks.

"Vaguely," says Brandon. "I thought you said it was nothing."

"It was my father."

The irritation in Brandon's eyes softens, and he purses his lips.

"Oh no."

"It was the first time in over a year that anyone from Colorado Springs had talked to me since I ran away," Jensen continues. "He was drunk. He told me…"

"What?"

"He told me that I was a sinner, that if God had wanted me to be a boy I would have been born a boy. He told me to repent of my sins or my soul would burn for eternity. He used my legal name. He knows I hate it. He said that he should have let the nurses pull the plug on me when I was struggling to breathe after I was born. Having a dead daughter would be preferable to having a living son."

"Love, none of those things are true. You've got flaws, we all do, but being a guy stuck in the wrong body isn't your fault. All of those things that your father said are on him, not you."

"Thanks. It doesn't make me feel any better, but I appreciate it."

Brandon sighs.

"But that's not all."

Jensen nods.

"No, it isn't. After I hung up on him, I think I downed three Ativan and maybe a hundred milligrams of melatonin. I don't remember. All I know is that when I woke up it was nine at night and I'd missed my shift-"

"Dammit, Jensen, you've missed work too often in the last month…"

"-so I decided that I'd talk to my shift manager when I got in the next day. When I went in to explain to him what had happened, he told me that he was letting me go because I had become too inconsistent. On my way out another employee groped me and told me he'd show me how a real man gets what he wants, so I hit him. He wanted to press charges, but a few of my co-workers spoke up on my behalf, so the charges were dropped on the condition that I'm not allowed to set foot in the Oakland Wal-Mart for a year."

"I can't believe that man had the nerve to grope you… Wait, so you've been unemployed for a week?"

"Yes."

"And… what have you been doing for the last week?"

Jensen is silent, and Brandon rubs his face with his hand.

"I can't believe this… I thought you said you were gonna try quitting, or at least cutting back?"

"I tried, Bran. For a while I think I used a grand total of two dozen times. You remember what I was like when we met at that party a year and a half ago, right? I was so high that I was incoherent half of the time. I did try, and you helped me. But that drug dealer, trying to push pills about a month ago… I can't, Brandon. The drugs help me not feel so fucked up and out of place. I can't give that up. "

"No, they help you ignore your problems," spits Brandon. "So are you saying that I'm not enough?"

"What? No! That's not what I-"

"Oh really? That's what it sounds like to me."

"Bran, please-"

"NO! I should have realised that you were using all the time again, the signs were all there and I didn't see them or maybe I didn't want to admit to myself that you were using more often than you told me you were. But you told me that you would be honest with me, and I believed you because I had no reason not to; you were honest before. You lied to me."

Those four words hit Jensen like an anvil, because he can't deny it. Up until a month ago he was telling Brandon every time he needed to use, but when he went back to using every other day he started becoming more secretive, skipping work to do it, going into work high… This mess is on him now.

"Brandon, I… You're right. I lied to you. I know you don't trust me right now, but I want to make this right. So please, tell me what I can do."

Brandon's face softens slightly.

"If you really want to make this right, stop abusing your prescription meds. Period."

And there it is. Jensen knows that this is an important decision, but for the life of him he's utterly stumped. Either way, he can't win. If he chooses to give up drugs period, he loses his coping mechanism, and he doesn't know how to deal with life without the drugs right now. But if he chooses not to give up the drugs… No, no, he can't choose.

From the look on Brandon's face, Jensen must have spoken out loud. He flinches, seeing that much pain and anger on his boyfriend's face.

"No, no, listen-"

"I heard you clearly," he says, his voice reaching sub-zero temperatures. "Fine. I'll make your choice for you. I'm getting my stuff."

"Dammit, Brandon, that's not what I meant!"

SLAP

They sit there for a moment, staring at each other, Jensen holding a hand to his cheek, and then Brandon stands up.

"Don't follow me," he says before disappearing into the bedroom.

Jensen isn't sure how long he sits there, one hand touching his cheek and the other clutching the mug of tea, before Brandon comes out again with a suitcase in his hand. He opens the apartment door and steps out, then turns around.

"Don't contact me."

The sound of the door slamming is the catalyst. A tear slips from one eye and falls into the now cold tea, followed by another, then another. Before long, the only sounds are the raindrops whispering outside and the broken sobs inside.

XXXXXXXXX

Brandon knows he said he was going to leave, but four hours later he's still sitting in a dingy coffee shop near the bus stop three blocks from his and Jensen's apartment with his small suitcase beside him, holding a book that he's not really reading in one hand and clutching a mug in the other and staring out the grimy window at people hurrying every which way through the rain. On the outside he looks calm –he can see his reflection in the glass- but a storm rages inside.

He can't help but wonder, is leaving really the right thing? Yes, he's hurt and angry that Jensen has been lying for the last month about the amount of times that he's used. Yes, a part of him feels that it's not worth the pain and frustration to stick around. On the other hand, abusing prescription drugs has been Jensen's way of coping since before they met a year ago, and maybe Brandon should have given him some time to think it over.

I am giving him time to think it over, he tells himself.

No, you told him you were leaving, says a nasty little voice in the back of his head. And the thing is, you can't deny that you know he meant that he needed time to think and yet you refused to listen.

Shut up, Brandon tells the little voice. When it doesn't, he tries to drown it out by thinking of all the pleasant things in his life. There's just one little problem: almost every pleasant memory he has involves Jensen. He can't help but remember the time when he won them two tickets to Disneyland in a game of eight ball, going skinny dipping in the bay late at night, his comforting presence after Brandon got kicked out when he came out to his parents (they have since apologised), coming home one night to find Jensen frustrated and covered in flour and filling after an unsuccessful attempt at making cherry pie, dancing close to him in a nightclub…

And then it comes to him: he can't leave, not as long as the good memories outweigh the bad. Yes, he was lied to, but Jensen gave him so much to cherish. He at least deserves a second chance, even if they might have to start over.

His mind made up, Brandon stands and takes his mug to the rather grumpy-looking barista at the counter. Taking out his wallet, he puts a five dollar bill in the tip jar and then takes the handle of his suitcase, going out into the rain. Behind him the barista is still standing at the counter with the mug in her hand, staring at the tip jar.

It takes him maybe five minutes to get back to the apartment building and another minute or so to take the elevator to the third floor and walk down the hall until he's standing outside of Apartment 312, home sweet home. The synthesised sound of some industrial band can be heard clearly through the door and Brandon would usually be irritated at the volume of the tripe that Jensen calls music, but right now it's the sweetest sound in the world. He takes out his key and inserts it into the lock and goes to unlock the door, but the handle turns easily. Jensen must not have locked the door when he left.

Brandon turns the handle and walks into the apartment's small entrance foyer. A picture of them that had been hanging on the wall to one side is lying on the ground, the glass cracked, and the contents of the coat closet have been scattered. Walking into the living room, he sees the pillows from the sofa lying in the corner next to the TV and the little herb garden that Jensen keeps in a large pot overturned, plants and dirt strewn across the already dirty rug. The door to the small balcony is open and everything near it is soaked, so Brandon closes it. All the pots and pans have been pulled out of the kitchen cupboards, and the stereo, still blasting industrial music, is lying on its side. Brandon sets it upright and turns it off, and the silence is deafening.

"Jensen?" he says into the silence.

There's no reply as he walks from the main living area into the bedroom, which is just as trashed as the rest of the apartment, his heart hammering. There's only one room he hasn't checked, and he doesn't know what he's going to find but he knows he won't like it.

"Jensen, please come out," he says, knocking on the bathroom door.

No reply. He checks the handle and it's locked.

"Come on; do I have to break down the door?"

Still nothing.

"All right, you asked for it," says Brandon. Stepping away from the door, he runs at it. The impact makes it rattle in its frame, but it doesn't give until he's thrown himself at it quite a few times.

Brandon thinks he must be having a nightmare. There's blood –on the tiles, dissolving in the bathtub full of water, droplets of it on the toilet and sink and even on the walls. The stench of it is thick in the air and lying in the middle of the room, soaked and curled up with a reddening towel sandwiched between his forearms and his cell phone centimetres from his fingertips, is Jensen.

"Oh my god!" he cries, dropping to his knees and pulling Jensen into his lap, feeling frantically for a pulse. It's there, but only barely. He picks up the phone and sees 9 on the emergency call screen; Jensen evidently tried to call 911 before he passed out. Brandon takes the soaked towel from between Jensen's forearms, trying not to look at the long, deep gashes that are still oozing blood, and then grabs two more towels. He replaces the one that he removed earlier and then wraps the other towel around both arms and the first towel and presses hard, his other hand dialling the emergency operator.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"M-my boyfriend, h-he's bleeding. He's unconscious a-a-and has a pulse, b-but-"

"Where are you located?"

"1265 Arnold St-Street, Apartment 312."

"An ambulance will arrive at your location in approximately five minutes."

Brandon flips the phone closed and sits there with his hands squeezing the towel around Jensen's arms, shaking and trying not to think about the blood soaking through the towel or what could have happened if he hadn't come back when he did.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

For three hours Brandon sits in the emergency room waiting area, jumping up every time a doctor comes out of the operating area and then sinking back onto the uncomfortable plastic chair when the doctor doesn't call for him. He's vibrating with anxiety; how much longer is it going to take until he knows whether Jensen is going to make it? To ease his nerves he grabs a pack of gum from the vending machine and chews on a stick, trying to ignore the blood still on his hands and his pants and the way people are staring at him.

After another hour, a doctor comes out and calls "Brandon Yukimura?"

Brandon leaps out of his chair as if burned and makes his way over to the doctor quickly. He reads the nametag: Armando Bautista, MD.

"You're the medical proxy for Jacqueline Metzinger?"

He nods, stifling a cringe at the use of Jensen's legal name.

"What's the news, Doc? Will he make it?"

Doctor Bautista seems taken aback but quickly recovers.

"Yes, but she- excuse me, he, almost didn't. Death by slashed wrists takes about a hundred and five minutes; another ten or fifteen minutes and there would have been nothing we could do. His heart stopped once while he was on the operating table."

"Fuck," Brandon says, his heart stuttering in his chest. "Can I go see him?"

"You can, but he won't be awake for a while."

"I just want to see that he's okay with my own eyes."

"This way."

Brandon follows Doctor Bautista down the hall to the elevator. They take it up to the second floor, and the doctor leads him down a long corridor before stopping at room 224. Brandon makes to open the door, but Doctor Bautista puts a hand on his shoulder.

"What does he like to be called?"

Brandon blinks.

"He prefers Jensen."

"Well, when Jensen is awake I highly recommend that he be seen by a mental health professional. The old scars on his arms and legs, and the evidence of drug abuse that we found in his system… These indicate to me that he's been having serious mental health problems for a while. You may even want to consider persuading him to commit himself, or involuntary commitment if he doesn't agree."

"I…"

Doctor Bautista fixes Brandon with a piercing stare and he lowers his gaze. He's right of course, but Brandon kind of doubts that Jensen will acquiesce to seeing a mental health professional, much less staying in a psych ward, not after what he told him about what his parents did when he came out to them. The memory of him talking about being subjected to gender conversion therapy, having multiple exorcisms performed on him, being beaten until he couldn't walk, being locked up and denied all contact with the outside world… Brandon still gets angry when he thinks about it. He fixes Doctor Bautista with what he hopes is a sincere smile.

"I'll talk to him about it."

"All right. Try not to wake him up."

"I won't wake him," Brandon says before he walks into the room, closing the door behind him.

Jensen is unconscious, that much he expected. What he hadn't expected was how many wires there are. They're everywhere: a nasal cannula, a tube supplying blood in his arm, another supplying essential nutrients attached to his hand, wires attached to his chest and a clamp attached to his index finger, measuring his pulse. His arms, almost as pale as the sheets, are covered in clean white bandages and Brandon has to look away, willing himself not to cry. There's a chair in the corner of the room; he pulls it up to the side of the bed and sits down.

"Jens?" he says, even though he knows Jensen can't hear him. His throat feels stuck, so he clears it and tries again. "Jensen, I want you to know that while I'm still upset that you lied to me, I'm sorry that I hit you. And I'm sorry that I didn't give you time to think. I knew what you meant when you said you couldn't choose, and instead of recognising that you needed some time I got pissy. I don't know if we can go back to the way we were, but" -he pauses, wipes his eyes- "but I want to try. You have to be willing to try too though. And you've gotta wake up. Please, Jens, wake up. I need you to be okay. I've made so many memories with you; please don't let the last one be you lying in this god-forsaken room."

Jensen doesn't respond; Brandon didn't expect him to. He scoots closer to the bedside and takes one hand in both of his. It's small and –though Brandon would never say it to Jensen's face- delicate, with fingers made for piano playing and artistic endeavours. He lays his head down on the blanket, figuring that since it will be a while before his (ex?) boyfriend wakes up he might as well rest.

XXXXXXXX

When he regains consciousness, it's to the feeling of fingers gently running through his hair. He leans into the touch and sighs; he could lie here and enjoy this all day... except for the fact that his back is aching. Why did he fall asleep sitting up, and whose fingers are those? Panicking, Brandon jumps to his feet and in his haste knocks over the chair upon which he had been sitting. It takes him a few seconds before he gets his bearings and remembers that he fell asleep in Jensen's hospital room. Looking toward the bed, he sees the aforementioned occupant blinking at him slowly.

"Bran?" he asks, looking for all the world like he expects this to be a dream and for Brandon to disappear at any moment.

"Yeah," Brandon says, picking the chair up and sitting back down. "It's me."

"Thought you left." His words are slightly slurred.

"I was upset, Jens. I'm sorry."

Instead of answering, Jensen looks away from him, toward the window. Outside the sky has cleared, revealing a full moon and twinkling stars that are just visible through the light pollution that comes from living in a city. Brandon briefly wishes that they lived in the country instead before he reminds himself that if they lived in the country it might have taken the ambulance longer to come, and he might be seeing Jensen in the morgue instead of lying in a hospital bed.

"I destroyed the apartment when I thought you weren't coming back," Jensen finally says, looking down at his arms. "I w-was so upset with myself because it should've been an easy choice. I should've immediately told you I'd give it up, but I froze. I don't like being addicted to drugs but they're so familiar, and the thought of giving them up... I thought if I'd decided to give up the drugs but lost you anyway there wasn't any point in staying. So IIIII drew a warm bath and I did the deed and I thought I was ready to die, but then I started to panic because I didn't want to die." He looks up at Brandon, his eyes full of unshed tears. "I don't want to die, Bran; I just want the pain to stop."

Brandon is so completely blown away by this confession that he doesn't catch the next thing that Jensen says.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Jensen shifts.

"I said I'll get help. I'll check myself into the psych ward. I know I've fucked up; I want to be worthy of your trust again."

Brandon sits stock still for a moment, processing the fact that Jensen just said he'd voluntarily commit himself and get help, which is no small feat. Then he surges forward, kissing him roughly on the mouth. He pulls back quickly when Jensen makes a small sound that could indicate surprise or discomfort but stays in his airspace, clasping one hand again in both of his.

"You won't be alone," he says.

He doesn't think he's ever seen a more beautiful smile.


End file.
